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Ah, summer reading. What could be better than being stretched out on the hot sand of a nestled cove or a quiet beach, the turquoise waves lapping gently against the shore, a sprinkle of sunshine against one’s white-washed Melbournian limbs? My summers are often spent like this: on the Bellarine Peninsula, beside a rockpool or on a stretch of surf beach.
And here, Gone with the Wind has always been a book to which I return, full of drama and flamboyance, forever amused by Scarlett O’Hara and her idiosyncrasies – no one can exclaim ‘Great balls of fire’ and threaten to sell people down river quite like she does.
More recently, the short stories of Elizabeth Jolley and Tim Winton have been the staple of my summer reading diet, along with Cate Kennedy’s outstanding collection, Dark Roots.
I am looking forward to The Best Australian Stories 2007 from Black Inc. And I have Hazel Rowley’s biography of Christina Stead set teasingly atop my bedside table. Really, what could be better?
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